Former queen mother dies

The former Queen Mother, who in 1967 opened the Casualty Department at Middleton Royal Hospital, has died in Hellebore Close, the Flowers Estate. She was 92.

The Queen gave the newspaper back to Violet who said, “Don’t you want to cut it out?”

“No,” said the Queen. “It’s hardly worth keeping, is it?” Then she noticed that the front page headline screamed:

LOAN CRISIS: JAPAN ISSUES ULTIMATUM.

She took the newspaper back from Violet and read that Jack Barker had been closeted in an eight-hour meeting with Treasury Officials, and the Japanese Finance Minister the previous day. No statement had been issued to the waiting media.

The Middleton Mercury’s financial correspondent, Marcus Moore, wrote that in his opinion, Britain faced its gravest crisis since the dark days of the War. He continued indignantly,

No details about the precise collateral for the multi-billion yen loan have been made public. Mr Barker’s commitment to open government must now be seen as a sham. Why oh why, are we being kept in the dark? What has Britain pledged to give Japan? The Middleton Mercury insists, ‘WE MUST BE TOLD’.

“Interesting, this Japanese loan thing,” said the Queen as she handed the paper back to Violet for the second time.

“Is it?” said Violet. “I couldn’t care less about politics myself. It don’t affect my life, does it?”

“But I thought you supported Jack Barker, Violet,” said the Queen.

“Yeah, I do,” said Violet, “But he’ll be out on ‘is arse soon, won’t ‘e?”

The Queen thought about the worsening financial crisis and agreed that Violet could be right. As she folded the ironing board away, and put it in the understairs cupboard, she wondered how she would feel about returning to Buckingham Palace. It would be awfully nice to have other, unseen hands to do her ironing for her of course, but the prospect of resuming her official duties made her shudder. She hoped that Jack would find a way out of his difficulties.

∨ The Queen and I ∧

42

WORKING WITH WOOD

The next day in Hell Close the Queen was watching as George Beresford knocked the last nail into the coffin.

“There,” he said. “Fit for a Queen, eh?”

“A beautiful job,” said the Queen. “How much do I owe you?”

George was offended. “Nowt,” he said. “It were only a few off-cuts and I already ‘ad the nails.” He ran his hands over the coffin. Then he lifted the coffin lid away from where it leant against the garden fence and tried it for size.

“Lovely fit, though I shouldn’t say so myself.”

“I must pay you for your time,” insisted the Queen, who hoped that George’s time came cheap. The Social Services funeral grant was not extravagant.

George said, “I’m master of my own time now. If I can’t help a neighbour out, it’s a poor do.”

The Queen ran her hands over the lid of the coffin. “You’re a craftsman, George,” she said.

“I were apprenticed to a cabinet maker. I worked for Barlows for fifteen years,” he said.

The name meant nothing to the Queen, but she could tell from the proud tone of George’s voice that Barlows were a well-respected firm.

“Why did you leave Barlows?” she asked.

“I ‘ad to look after the wife,” he said, his face clouding over.

“She was ill?” asked the Queen.

“She ‘ad a stroke,” said George. “She were only thirty-three, never stopped talking. Anyroad, one minute she were waving me off to work, the next time I see ‘er, she’s in hospital. Can’t talk, can’t move, can’t smile. She could cry though,” George said sadly. “Anyway,” he continued, still with his back to the Queen, “there were no one else to look after her. Wash ‘er and feed ‘er and stuff, and there were the little ‘uns, our Tony and John, so I gave my job up. Then, after she’d passed on, Barlows had gone bust and all I could get was shopfittin’ work. I could do it with my eyes shut. Still it were work. I’m not happy if I’m not working. It’s not just the money,” he said. He turned round to face the Queen, anxious to make his point. “It’s just the feeling of…it’s somebody needin’ you…I mean, what are you if you’re not workin’? I ‘ad some good mates at the shopfittin’,” he said. “I’ve lived on me own for three year and I’d be watchin’ a good telly programme and I’d be on me own and I’d think, in the morning I’ll tell me mates about this.” George laughed. “Pathetic really, i’n’t it?”

“Do you still see your mates?” asked the Queen.

“No, it don’t work like that,” said George. “I can’t arrange to see ‘em; they’d think I’d gone soft.” He started to put his tools away into slots sewn inside a canvas bag. There was a home for each tool. The Queen noticed that ‘Barlows’ was stamped in black ink inside the tool bag. She took a sweeping brush and started to sweep the curled wood shavings into a heap.

George took the brush from her, saying, “You shun’t be doin’ that.”

The Queen grabbed the brush back and said, “I’m perfectly capable of sweeping a few wood shavings…”

“No,” said George, regaining control of the brush. “You weren’t brought up to do the dirty work.”

“Then perhaps I should have been,” said the Queen, as she yanked the brush out of George’s hands again.

There was silence between them, each concentrated on their work. George polished the coffin and the Queen put the shavings into a black plastic bag. Then George said, “I’m sorry about your mam.”

“Thank you,” said the Queen, and burst into tears for the first time since her mother’s death. George put his cloth down and took the Queen in his arms, saying, “There, there, let it all out. Go on, you ‘ave a good cry.”

The Queen did have a good cry. George led her inside his neat home, showed her the sofa, ordered her to lie down, gave her a toilet roll to mop her tears and left her to her own misery. He knew that she would prefer it if he wasn’t there to watch her abandon herself to her grief. After fifteen minutes, when her sobs had subsided a little, he carried a tray of tea into the living room. The Queen sat up and took the cup and saucer that he offered her.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

“I’m not,” said George.

As they drank their tea, the Queen tried to work out exactly how many cups of tea she had drunk since she’d moved to Hell Close. It must be hundreds.

“Such a comfort, a cup of tea,” she said aloud to George.

“It’s hot and cheap,” said George. “A bit of a treat when you’ve got nowt. An’ it breaks the day up, don’t it?”

The Queen emptied her cup and held it out to be refilled. She wanted to rest a while before tackling the other funeral arrangements.

Spiggy and Anne knocked on the back door and came through.

“Your mam’s ‘ad a good cry,” said George to Anne.

“Good,” said Anne, and she sat on the arm of the sofa and patted her mother on the shoulder. Spiggy stood behind the Queen and squeezed her right arm in a clumsy gesture of condolence.

Anne said, “Spiggy and I have sorted out how to get Gran’s coffin to the church.”

“You’ve found somebody with an estate car?” asked the Queen, who had already worked out that a hearse and two cars for the mourners was financially impossible.

“No,” said Anne. “Gilbert can pull the coffin.”

“On what?”

“On Spiggy’s dad’s cart.”

“Only needs a lick of paint,” said Spiggy.

“I’ve got some tins out the back,” said George, warming to the idea.

The Queen said, “But Anne darling, Mummy can’t be buried from the back of a gypsy cart.”

Anne, who in her former life had been associated with Romany causes, bristled slightly at this slur. However, Spiggy, whose body coursed with Romany blood, took no offence. He said,

“I c’n see your mam’s point of view, Anne. I mean, it ain’t exactly a state funeral, is it?”

George said to the Queen, “Your mam wouldn’t mind. Whenever I saw ‘er in a carriage she looked happy enough.”

The Queen was too sad and tired to raise any more objections, so preparations went ahead that afternoon for a Hell Close-style state funeral. Black and purple paint were considered to be suitable colours for the fresh paintwork on the cart and George, Spiggy and Anne began to rub off the old carnival colours and prepare the cart for its more sombre outing in two days’ time.

∨ The Queen and I ∧

43

INDOOR PURSUITS

It was the night of the annual dinner of the Outdoor Pursuits Association of Great Britain at the National (formerly Royal) Geographical Society. The banqueting hall was full of men and women with weatherbeaten faces and hearty appetites. Canoeists chatted to mountaineers. Orienteers swapped anecdotes with proprietors of sports equipment shops. Most of the guests looked uncomfortable in their formal evening wear, as if they couldn’t wait to change back into their rugged outdoor clothes.

Jack Barker was the guest of honour. He sat at the top table, flanked by an official of the British Canoe Union and the Chairperson of the Caving Association of Great Britain. Jack was bored out of his brain. He hated the outdoors, but at this particular moment he would gladly have climbed Ben Nevis backwards and naked rather than endure yet another interminable story about being trapped in a flooded cave. He pushed his soup bowl away the soup tasted fishy.

“What’s the soup?” he asked the Master of Ceremonies, who stood behind him.

“Fish, Prime Minister,” answered the flunkey.

By the time Jack was halfway through his Coronation Chicken he had begun to sweat and the colour had gone from his face.

The British Canoe Union official bent towards Jack and asked with concern, “Are you all right, sir?”

“I’m not sure,” answered Jack.

Eric Tremaine, who was attending the dinner in his role as a member of the Caravan and Camping Club of Great Britain, watched triumphantly from a more humbly placed table as Jack was led away by the Master of Ceremonies.

“Most undignified,” Eric remarked to his neighbour, a free-fall parachutist, as Jack vomited uncontrollably into the water jug that he clutched in his hands.

When the contents of Jack’s soup bowl were analysed in the laboratories of St Thomas’s Hospital, the liquid was found to contain elements of a common weedkiller and a tiny proportion of a liquidised slug pellet.

As no other guest at the dinner had suffered Jack’s fate, the conclusion drawn by the doctors at the hospital and the police forensic experts was that an amateurish attempt had been made to poison the Prime Minister.

Eric Tremaine sat inside his caravan in a layby near East Croydon next morning. He re-read the headline for the third time: ‘P.M. SURVIVES SLUG PELLET ASSAULT’ and threw his paper down in disgust.

∨ The Queen and I ∧

44

A WALK UP COWSLIP HILL

The Queen woke early on the morning of the funeral. She lay awake thinking about her mother, then got out of bed and looked out of the window. Hell Close was flooded in sunshine. She noticed that Fitzroy Toussaint’s car was parked outside Diana’s house.

The Queen searched through a tangled mass of flesh-coloured tights and eventually found a pair that were not too badly laddered. She dressed in a navy blue wool dress and rummaged around in the bottom of the wardrobe for her navy court shoes. She went into the box room and looked through the boxes until she found a suitable hat: navy with a white petersham ribbon. She tried the hat on in front of the bathroom mirror. How like my old self I look, she thought. Since moving into Hell Close she had lived in comfortable skirts and sweaters. She now felt stiff and over-formal in her funeral outfit.

She went downstairs and fed Harris, who was waiting outside the back kitchen door, then made herself a strong mug of tea, which she took outside into the back garden to drink. She noticed that Beverley Threadgold’s washing line was pegged out with children’s clothes, which swayed in the slight breeze. She could hear the scream of Beverley’s twin-tub as it built up to its spin cycle. Looking across to Anne’s garden she could see Gilbert munching on a bale of hay. Now, all around her, she could hear water running and doors slamming and voices calling to each other as the inhabitants of Hell Close left their beds and prepared for the early morning funeral.

The Queen went back into the house, brushed her hair, applied a little make-up, collected her handbag, gloves and hat, and left by the front door. She crossed the road and went into her mother’s bungalow. The curtains were closed, as was the custom in Hell Close, signifying that a death had occurred. Philomena was in the kitchen, buttering a heap of sliced white bread. Fillings for the sandwiches: orange grated cheese, slices of pink spam, and a block of beige meat paste lay on greaseproof paper, waiting to be inserted into the bread and made into sandwiches for the after-funeral reception. Violet Toby came in carrying a tray full of little cakes covered in various garish shades of icing.

“How kind,” said the Queen.

Beverley Threadgold was next, with a large fruit cake which was only a little burnt around the sides. Soon the little formica table in the centre of the kitchen was laden with food.

Princess Margaret arrived, draped in a black veil and said, “People are putting horrid bunches of cheap flowers on Mummy’s lawn.”

The Queen went outside just as Mrs Christmas was laying a bunch of cornflowers onto the grass. A note attached said:

With grate sympathy from Mr & Mrs Christmas and the boys.

Other Hell Close residents milled around reading the floral tributes. There was one from Inspector Holyland, a traditionally shaped wreath in red, white and blue carnations. On the florist’s card he had written:

God bless you, Ma’am, from Inspector Holyland and the lads at the barrier.

But the largest and most beautiful display was being carried across the road by Fitzroy Toussaint. Two dozen fragrant lilies surrounded by a cloud of gypsophila. A florist’s van pulled up and more flowers and wreaths were placed on the grass by eager Hell Close volunteers. Tony Threadgold had picked lilac from the scabby tree in his back garden.

At 8.30 precisely, Gilbert trotted up outside the Queen Mother’s bungalow, pulling the cart which had been transformed into a thing of beauty. The purple and black paintwork sparkled, the wheels had touches of gold inside the rims and the initials ‘Q.M.’ had been stencilled in her favourite colour, periwinkle blue, all around the edges of the cart itself.

Gilbert’s bridle had been cleaned and polished, and his coat gleamed. New shoes had been bought for him to mark the occasion and he stepped out proudly, lifting each foot as though he were used to taking a central role in royal ceremonies. A hush fell over the crowd of Hell Close residents as Anne and Spiggy got down from the cart and entered the bungalow. Gilbert bent his head and started to munch on Inspector Holyland’s wreath before Wilf Toby took the reins and jerked Gilbert’s head upright.

A police car containing Mr Pike, the prison officer, and Charles entered Hell Close with a police driver at the wheel. Charles was wearing a dark suit with a black tie and a pink shirt. His pony tail was tied at the back in its now customary red towelling band. On his right hand he was wearing a handcuff. Mr Pike wore his prison uniform and a handcuff on his left hand. Charles had thought, why couldn’t Diana follow the simplest of instructions? I asked for a white shirt in my letter. The car stopped and Charles and Mr Pike, joined at the wrist, got out and went into the bungalow. The Queen was disappointed when she saw Charles. She had hoped that he would, by now, have had a regulation prison haircut. And why was he wearing a pink shirt of all things, was it a symbol of his growing anarchy?

The coffin bearers assembled in the Queen Mother’s bedroom. Tony Threadgold, Spiggy, George Beresford, Mr Christmas, Wilf Toby and Prince Charles, temporarily released from Mr Pike. Spiggy was nervous. He was a good eight inches shorter than the other men; would his arms reach the coffin or would he be left looking ridiculous, with his hands grasping fresh air? George checked the screws on the coffin lid and, watched by the principal mourners, the men heaved the coffin onto their shoulders. Spiggy was forced to stretch, but to his great relief the tips of his fingers made contact with the wood. The coffin was manoeuvred carefully through the small rooms and out into the street.

The crowd watched in silence as the men went to the back of the cart and slid the coffin along until it was perfectly placed and secured by its own weight. The Queen asked that a small posy of sweet peas be placed on top of the coffin and then the other flowers and wreaths were passed up until the cart resembled a flower stall in a market. Anne jumped to the front of the cart and took the reins and Gilbert moved off at a suitably funereal pace. Philomena stood inside the closed front door of the bungalow, waiting. When she heard the crowd move away and the clip clop of Gilbert’s hooves receding in the distance, she opened the curtains wide to let in the sunshine. She then flung the front door open to let out the spirit of the Queen Mother.

The horse and cart and the mourners passed through the barrier. Inspector Holyland saluted smartly and avoided eye contact with Charles. The procession was followed at a distance by the coachload of policemen, who were ready to repel representatives of the media, should any be foolhardy enough to challenge the ban on their presence. It was only half a mile to the church and the adjoining graveyard, but Diana wished she hadn’t worn her highest black court shoes, though once again she was on public display, if only to the people outside their houses watching silently as the procession passed by.

Victor Berryman came out of Food-U-R accompanied by his check-out women and an adolescent youth, a shelf-filler, wearing a back-to-front baseball cap. As the cart trundled by, Victor snatched the cap from the youth’s head and gave him a mini-lecture on showing respect for the dead. Mrs Berryman, marooned by agoraphobia, watched sadly from an upstairs window.

The last stage of the journey lay ahead. Cowslip Hill, where the little church was situated. Gilbert strained within the shafts of the cart and adjusted himself to the incline. A gang of men and women were planting trees at the side of the road and they laid down their spades as the procession went by.

“Trees,” exclaimed the Queen.

“Marvellous, isn’t it?” said Charles. “I heard it on Radio Four. Jack Barker has ordered a massive tree planting operation. I hope they’ve prepared the planting holes properly,” he said, looking back anxiously.

Diana was stumbling now and Fitzroy Toussaint, dazzling in his dark suit, took her arm solicitously. This was a woman who needed support, he thought, and he was the man to give it to her, he added, to himself. Though he knew in his heart that this woman was strong enough to survive alone one day, when she’d recovered her self respect.

Anne said, “Ay oop,” as she’d been taught by Spiggy and Gilbert came to a stop outside the churchyard. The crowd of mourners filed into the church and became a congregation and when they were all in place the coffin was brought in and placed at the altar. The Queen had chosen ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ for the first hymn and ‘Amazing Grace’ for the second. The Hell Close congregation sang along with gusto. They knew the words and enjoyed the singing. Sing-songs in the pub started easily and did not usually stop until brought to an end by the landlord. The Royal mourners sang in a more restrained fashion, apart from the Queen, who felt strangely invigorated, almost released. She heard Crawfie say, “Sing up girrl, open your lungs!” and she did, startling Margaret and Charles, who stood at either side of her.

At the end of the funeral service the vicar said, “Before we move on to the churchyard I’d like you to join me in a prayer of thanksgiving.”

“Vicar’s won the pools,” said Mr Christmas to his wife.

“Shurrup!” hissed Mrs Christmas. “Show some bleedin’ respect. You’re in church.”

The vicar waited, then went on, “Yesterday an attempt was made on the life of our beloved Prime Minister. Fortunately, thanks to God’s intervention all ended well.”

Princess Margaret said sotto voce, “Fortunately for whom?”

But the Queen shot her a death ray look which silenced her.

The vicar continued, though his patience was wearing thin, “Almighty God, thank you for sparing the life of thy servant, Jack Barker. Our small community has already benefited from his wise leadership. Our school is to get a new roof, there are plans to renovate our run-down houses…”

“I got me giro on time!” interrupted a man called Giro Johnson from the back of the church.

“And I got a job!” shouted George Beresford, flourishing a letter from the new Ministry of Emergency House Building.

Other people called out their experiences of Jack’s munificence. Philomena Toussaint began speaking in tongues and Mr Pike, carried away by the emotional atmosphere, confided that his dream for Castle Prison was to see flushing lavatories installed in every cell. “We shall overcome!” he shouted.

The vicar thought, really, this is turning into a revivalist meeting. He had disapproved of the charismatic church ever since his wife had told him, during a quarrel, that he lacked charisma. After Charles had sung out that he thought the tree-planting scheme was ‘proof of Mr Barker’s care for the environment’, the vicar decided enough was enough and ordered the congregation to kneel and put their hands together in silent prayer.

The moment when the coffin was lowered into the open grave was hard to bear for the Queen and she held her hands out to her two eldest children before she threw a handful of earth onto the coffin. Margaret’s face hidden behind her veil showed disapproval; the Queen was showing her emotions it was bad form, like peeling a sticking plaster away and displaying a wound. Charles grieved. Anne clutched at him and the Queen turned to both of them and tried to comfort them. Margaret watched with increasing alarm as Royal protocol was breached by Hell Close residents who, one by one, went up to the Queen and hugged her. And what was Diana doing in the arms of Fitzroy Toussaint? Why was Anne bent down and crying on that little fat man’s shoulder? Margaret shuddered and turned away and began to walk back down the hill.

The funeral reception went on until late in the afternoon. The Queen talked happily about memories she had of her mother and circulated among her guests with an unforced informality. Meanwhile, Philomena Toussaint sat next door in her kitchen, listening to the sounds of jollity next door. She couldn’t stay in a house where alcohol was being served. She took a chair, stood on it and started to rearrange all the tins and packets and cartons in her high cupboard. All the empty tins, the empty packets, the empty cartons, which represented an old woman’s pride and a pauper’s pension.

At the same time as the funeral reception was breaking up, Prince Philip, fortified by liquid food, sat up in bed and assured a contract nurse new to the ward that he was indeed the Duke of Edinburgh. He was married to the Queen, father of the Prince of Wales, and user of the Royal yacht Britannia, which cost £30,000 a day to run.

“Sure you are,” the nurse said in her lilting accent, looking closely at the wide-eyed lunatic. “Sure you are.” She turned from Philip’s bedside towards the patient next to him, who said loudly, “I am the new Messiah!”

“Sure you are,” she said. “Sure you are.”

Prince Charles begged Mr Pike to be allowed to see his garden and Pike, mellowed by two tins of extra strength lager, relented, saying, “One minute, while I have a pee.”

Pike went into the upstairs lavatory and Charles whispered to Diana, “Quick, find my shell suit and trainers.”

Diana did as she was told, whilst Charles looked in horror at the dehydrated devastation that had once been his garden. The lavatory flushed and they heard Pike go into the bathroom to wash his hands. Diana watched as her husband threw off his funeral clothes and changed into the shell suit and training shoes. When she realised the significance of his actions, she ran to get her purse. She took out a twenty pound note and said, “Good luck, darling, I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

Charles was running as Mr Pike dried his hands upstairs and he had leapt over the back garden fence as Pike opened the bathroom cabinet for a snoop; and he was on his way to freedom and the North, as Pike, his curiosity satisfied, closed the cabinet and headed downstairs to take the prisoner under escort back to prison.

∨ The Queen and I ∧

JUNE

∨ The Queen and I ∧

45

NEAR MISS

Jack Barker was entertaining a delegation from the Mothers’ Union, who were petitioning for the legislation of licensed brothels. They were in the drawing room at Number Ten, eating little hot snacks and talking about flagellation and colonic irrigation. Jack was trying very hard to show that he wasn’t at all shocked by the conversation of these respectable-looking middle-aged women.

“But,” said Jack to Mrs Butterworth the leader of the delegation. “You wouldn’t want a brothel next door to you, would you?”

Mrs Butterworth snatched a piece of crispy seaweed from a tray carried by a passing waitress and said, “But I’ve got a brothel next door to me. The brothel keeper is a charming woman and the girls are as good as gold. Their garden is beautifully kept.”

Jack had a mental image of scantily dressed tarts whipping the borders into shape.

“So unfair,” said Mrs Butterworth, “that they should live under the threat of prosecution.”

Jack nodded in agreement but his mind was on other matters. He was due to make a statement to Parliament in half an hour. He was dreading facing that angry bear pit and explaining how he was proposing to repay the Japanese loan. Rosetta Higgins, Jack’s personal private secretary, came into the room and signalled that it was time to leave. Jack shook Mrs Butterworth’s hand, promised to ‘address this most important matter’, waved goodbye to the other women and left. Just before the door closed he heard Mrs Butterworth say to a cluster of women: “Divine eyes, nice bum, pity about the dandruff.”

As he came out of Number Ten, Jack brushed the shoulders of his dark jacket and thought, you fat old cow, I’ll find out where you live and I’ll have that knocking shop busted. He immediately regretted this vengeful thought. What was happening to him? He turned to Rosetta sitting next to him in the official car and said, “Get me some Head and Shoulders later, will you?”

“Get your own,” she said. “I’m working a sixteen-hour day as it is. When do I have time to shop?”

“Well I can’t go into a shop, can I?” whined Jack.

The driver said, “I’ll get the bleedin’ shampoo. There’s a shop on the corner of Trafalgar Square. What kinda hair you got Jack? Greasy? Dry? Normal?”

Jack turned to Rosetta and asked, “What kind of hair have I got?”

“Sparse,” she said.

Jack’s hair clogged the drain of the shower in the mornings. As he rushed from meeting room to official engagement to Commons he left behind tangible reminders of himself. The hairs on his head detached themselves and floated away, looking for somewhere to settle. They no longer felt secure, or attached to Jack’s head.

As the car left Downing Street and turned into Whitehall, Rosetta handed Jack a file marked: ‘B.O.M.B. UPDATE CONFIDENTIAL’.

She said, “You’d better see this.”

Jack smiled. Thank God for a bit of light relief. “What’s the old bugger up to now?” he asked.

Rosetta said, “He’s got the official support of the British Legion, the Caravan Club of Great Britain and the Federation of Allotment Holders, amongst others. Read it for yourself.”

Jack opened the file and began to read. Eric Tremaine was starting to be a bloody nuisance. His crackpot movement had spread out from Kettering and now encompassed most of the country. Marks and Spencer had completely run out of beige car coats with elasticated backs.

“Silly old sod,” said Jack, as he handed the file back to Rosetta. Then, “Did the Queen ever write back?”

Rosetta snapped, “Last page.” She threw the file into Jack’s lap.

Jack opened it again, turned to the last page and read a photocopy of the Queen’s letter which had been intercepted by the Post Office on its way to ‘Erilob’.

9 Hell Close

Flowers Estate

Middleton

MI29WL

Dear Mr Tremaine,

Thank you for your letter. I am most grateful for the concern you and your wife express regarding my welfare and that of my family. However, I strongly advise you to concentrate on your many interests and hobbies, and forget about B.O.M.B. I would not want to be responsible for any difficulties you may find yourself in with the authorities.

I apologise for the crude stationery. The choice at my local shop is somewhat restricted.

Yours faithfully,

Elizabeth Windsor.

P.S. The contents of our correspondence will almost certainly come to the attention of the authorities. Therefore I must ask you to desist from writing to me again. I’m sure you understand.

The correspondence continued.

The driver stopped the car and hurried into the supermarket. Jack read a photocopy of another message from Tremaine which was written in his backward-slanting hand, on the back of an admission ticket to the Ideal Home Exhibition.

Your Majesty,

I understood your coded message: “I’m sure you understand.” That is why your milkman, Barry Laker, is hand-delivering this message, along with your pint of semi-skimmed. I will be in touch.

Yours,

Eric (B.O.M.B.)

The correspondence continued even further.

Your Majesty,

Forgive my silence. Lobelia and I had to go down to the caravan for a few days. Vandals had broken in and completely smashed one bunk bed and our shower fitting. Lobelia had to be sedated after seeing the damage, but she is now back in the saddle. B.O.M.B.’s membership increases by leaps and bounds. We have members as far afield as Dumfries and Totnes. Our postman (Alan) jokes that soon we will need our own pigeon-hole at postal headquarters!

Lobelia sends her affectionate regards to Diana (always her favourite). Mine are you and Anne, (for the good work she does with the dark kiddies abroad).

Yours affectionately,

Eric